


the one where Misfire sucks Fulcrum off and they break in his new frame

by Anonymous



Series: transformers fics by fascinationex [15]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prompt Fill, low-key seeker frame fetish I guess, references to frame dysphoria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:01:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22539775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Fulcrum has not overloaded since his reformat, but he's pretty excited about the idea. (It's porn.)
Relationships: Fulcrum/Misfire (Transformers)
Series: transformers fics by fascinationex [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1311599
Comments: 19
Kudos: 115
Collections: Maccadam's Back Room First Run





	the one where Misfire sucks Fulcrum off and they break in his new frame

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:**  
>  Can I get Misfire sucking Fulcrum off for the first time since Fulcrum comes back online? w/ Fulcrum a little desperate and super excited to see a Seeker between his legs, please!
> 
> (reposted from maccadams-filthy-fills)

It was kind of a running gag that the whole Decepticon Army had a _thing_ for seekers. It wasn't completely untrue: seekers had those smooth, aerodynamic designs and angular, elegant wings. They were dangerous as hell and hot as molten slag—what wasn't to like? But it was also true that, in general, pretty jets passed time with either a) big armoured brutes who could "persuade" them, or b) _other_ pretty jets, who, you know, also had the tightly-engineered, aerodynamic frames and big pretty wings sharp enough to cut air. 

Even before he'd been reformatted on the cheap into an alt-mode that had been intended to last all of a week, Fulcrum had not been the sort of mechanism a seeker noticed in that way. He wasn't even sure he'd ever exchanged words with a true Decepticon seeker until he'd met Misfire. Leozack had once told him to get out of his way, but that probably didn't count. (Arguably Fulcrum had kept getting out of the way and simply not looked back. That... had turned out poorly.)

Now Fulcrum was a stranger crammed into an unfamiliar and deeply ugly frame, and yet somehow Misfire had nevertheless developed an interest in him. 

He didn't... quite get it. 

He wasn't going to examine it too hard, for his own sake, but let the record show that he didn't quite get it. 

"Have you seen the quality of aft on this ship," Misfire had said, once, early on, rubbing his face on Fulcrum's rounded shoulder like a weirdly overarmoured cybercat. "You thought the _energon_ shortage was bad?" and then, later, between sloppy kisses—which Fulcrum had given into within about five astroseconds—he'd also said, "Wow. So do you squeak like that every time, is that a thing?"

It turned out that, yes, Fulcrum did squeak like that—maybe not every time, but still kind of a lot.

This was not because he was "malfunctioning, but in a cute way", but rather because Misfire had no sense of the appropriate and was easily distracted from serious and boring conversations by frivolous and interesting activities.

Fulcrum wasn't sure what, if anything, Misfire meant by any of it—maybe nothing, and he just wanted a friend who would kiss him back. He was reluctant to question it, anyway; he didn't want to come across as pushy. Not to Misfire, and definitely not to the rest of the crew, who knew and liked Misfire a whole lot more than they knew and liked Fulcrum.

...but 'squeak' was a misnomer, anyway. It was a binary beep of surprise, and it was _totally normal_.

"Sure it is, pinhead," Misfire said. 

His engine was idling and his frame was warm and heavy, and he was playing with one of the seams on Fulcrum's arm. It wasn't a particularly sensitive one—or it hadn't been, when Misfire'd started. But now his frame had the idea that something interesting was happening there, and had sent resources to analyse it better. Anything could be sensitive if you worked at it long enough. "Hey, has anyone told you about the ghost yet?" 

"You could give me some warning," Fulcrum suggested, without much hope of getting his way. His whole arm seemed hypersensitive to Misfire's touch now, clean through his circuits and up to his shoulder joints. Fulcrum hadn't been touched at all in centuries. Misfire probably did not even know he was doing it. Fulcrum wanted to squirm away, and also to lean closer. He was reluctant to tell Misfire about any of it. What if he laughed at him? Or stopped?

"I am warning you?" Misfire protested, turning his face back towards him. His fingers stilled. "About the ghost?" Fulcrum could almost see the question marks hovering above his oblivious head.

Misfire was close enough that one of those big pretty wings was pressed against Fulcrum's back, angling right behind his helm, and he was could feel a soft buzz of heat and electromagnetic energy from it. If he leaned back slightly, the thin, hard metal would be right against his head. He could turn and put his face on it, a fact of which he was embarrassingly aware. His back was heading the same way as the seams of his arm: sensitive and aching for touch. 

Wings were supposed to be sensitive, too, but he didn't know how true that was. The minute tremors he was making in time with Misfire's fingers on his arm probably didn't have a lot in common with air currents, anyway.

"And they call me dumb," Misfire was saying, with what Fulcrum wasn't a hundred per cent sure was actually affection, and shook his head.

Miscommunication was pretty common, with Misfire.

He did end up pushing the flat of his wing right across Fulcrum's shoulder and head anyway. It was close enough to sink his EMF right into Fulcrum's and twist them all up together.

That was, uh, nice. Very nice. He felt overenergised and nervous—nervous in a weird, good way—and his plating felt like it was humming. It was heavy and anticipatory and... nice. Even though it came with a side of rambling commentary about a non-existent haunting of the Weak Anthropic Principle. 

Misfire's pretty wings, messy kisses, constant touching, and warm, buzzing field did several fairly predictable things to Fulcrum's body.

And Misfire was so relentless in seeking some kind of stimulation that he... basically never left Fulcrum alone. The surprising kisses and touching and _endless nonsensical commentary_ only really stopped if they found somewhere with promising scrap and brought the W.A.P. down planetside to investigate.

Fulcrum was pretty sure his charge had never been higher at any single point in his functioning. He fell into recharge every cycle on an ancient berth shoved into Misfire's cramped room, and he did it with Misfire's rambling still in his audials and a low hum of heat thrumming in his circuits. His interfacing equipment felt damp and swollen almost constantly, not that he ever had the privacy to look at it, and throbbed gently with charge under its plating.

He probably shouldn't have been surprised when, somehow, this constant chatter, sloppy and random kissing and physical contact had mysteriously turned into Misfire backing Fulcrum into a creaky chair in a poorly lit store room of the W.A.P. and looming over him. 

Fulcrum wasn't so dumb he'd forgotten how to be scared of the heavy-armoured, close range jets who made up a chunk of the Decepticon Army's air forces, no matter how nice their wings were or how many good little Decepticons' fantasies they featured in. In his own memory, it was only a few months ago that he'd been a skinny technician doing his best to dodge Deathsaurus's forces.

But the kisses, and also Misfire being _a giant useless dork_ , had kind of clued him in, in this case. So when it was Misfire's big shadow and wide-spread wings looming over him, it was—well, all right, he was still sort of anxious because _what if_ , but it was definitely not a Leozack-Yelling-In-The-Corridor level of anxiety. It wasn't even a Krok's-Disappointed-Optics level of anxiety.

__

Mostly it was the kind of shocking, excited anxiety that came with knowing he hadn't once overloaded since he'd been taken to Styx. His entire frame felt buzzed with it, and the way Misfire knocked his knees aside without asking and insinuated himself between them like he belonged there gave him several very exciting ideas about what might be about to happen.

__

"Takes you kind of a long time to catch on, huh?" he was saying, and then he folded down onto his knees, right there, between Fulcrum's thighs. All thoughts of mortal dread disappeared like smoke on the breeze. Misfire's wings spread out over his thighs, and maybe they weren't exactly gleaming and polished but they were still geometrically perfect and angular, stretching out, wider than Fulcrum. They felt warm, even though he wasn't quite touching them. The big, flat surface area gave off heat like a buzzing blanket over his plating. 

__

Fulcrum could feel Misfire's vents blowing hot air against his panels and it made him shiver as though the components behind those panels could feel it, too. It felt good, but more than that, it was proof that Misfire, too, was excited—excited to be on his knees for Fulcrum.

__

That was—that was a new thought. Thinking that, that maybe Misfire was just as charged up as he was right now, that he was hot and his fans were running fast, that maybe Misfire could also feel a damp heat blooming fast behind his modesty plating—that made Fulcrum's whole frame flush from head to toe. 

__

He almost panicked, thinking: _is this what it feels like when you blow up_? And then recent events reasserted themselves. He had no payload. The thick warmth rolling through his whole frame was just a response to Misfire between his thighs, smiling guilelessly at him, wings giving short excited little wiggles like they were absolutely begging to be touched.

__

Misfire... looked pretty content down there, all up, looking up along Fulcrum's frame with dim optics and that dumb smile.

__

"You, uh," Fulcrum's vocaliser gave an ugly crack, "you want... " 

__

"Pop your panels, loser," Misfire said, still smiling, and apparently unfamiliar with the whole concept of _not_ directly insulting his partner. "I'm gonna suck your spark out through your spike."

__

"Um," said Fulcrum. He suddenly found that he didn't care all that much about being called names—and that his spike didn't care in the slightest—and his modesty plating transformed aside with an honest-to-primus creak, which, okay, that was kind of embarrassing. He covered his eyes with one hand. 

__

"Wow, it's really been a while," Misfire commented obliviously, and Fulcrum twitched at the feeling of his face going hot. He was probably flushed. He hadn't seen himself in any mirrors but he doubted the magenta flush of energon was attractive against his new colour scheme (new to him, at least, although technically the paint had been dry for _a while_ ). 

__

"Since I got reformatted," Fulcrum said, torn between expiring from embarrassment and expiring from how hard his fuel pump was thumping. His fans were already screaming, vents buzzing. He spread his knees wider, as wide as the old chair would allow, and reset his vocaliser. 

__

Misfire's hands landed on his thighs, right on the insides. The seams there were sensitive, really, truly sensitive, and he shivered and twitched.

__

"Oof. Lucky I didn't ask to see your valve, huh, it'd probably be rusted shut by now," Misfire was _still_ talking, unfortunately. "Well, hi, there," he added, apparently speaking directly to Fulcrum's spike. 

__

No amount of mortification in the world would have stopped Fulcrum's spike from pressurising with Misfire watching expectantly from between his thighs. The bands of metal plating that folded neatly away when it was unpressurised responded fast, slotting into place with a soft whir and click. His spike hadn't much changed from what he was forged with, at least, except that classic k-con paint job. Now there was lubricant oozing between the plates, roughly like it was meant to, soaking out and sheening the length of it, but it had, uh, clearly thickened a little. With age. And, he guessed, with just... laying around perfectly still and cold while he'd been in stasis. 

__

_Suck your spark out through your spike,_ Misfire had said. And now it was all he could think of. Misfire's mouth. How it'd feel, oral lubricants and long hot tongue. Misfire's frame was running _hot_ , too, even as he hungrily watched Fulcrum's spike extend and expand, one metal plate at a time. 

__

Fulcrum was pretty sure his spike had never been harder, or pressurised so quickly, or slicked down with so much lubricant so fast. He hunched his shoulders and reached for it—it was, uh, kind of embarrassing.

__

Misfire smacked Fulcrum's hesitant hand away—"Hey!"—and cradled his thick spike gently in one hand—even that felt _good_ , oh, he was so hot, and it had been so long, and Misfire's possibly-accidental campaign of driving him absolutely fragging insane had paid off. The little sensors in his plating screamed at the touch of Misfire's hand. Fulcrum felt positively light-headed with want. 

__

Misfire didn't even move his hand for a moment. Instead he just watched intently as the lubricant rolled, slick and viscous, down the sides of his spike. 

Fulcrum looked down, too, and watched with him. It was a maddening feeling, the soft frame-temperature trickle of thick lubricant, coupled with the increasingly hot air blasting from Misfire's vents.

__

Misfire'd gone quiet there for half a second, watching Fulcrum's fluids slip slowly out from between the ridged little seams of his spike to coat it, to make it slick and ready for penetration. And it was ready. It was really, really ready. 

__

Now he made a little noise, a soft grunt of want. "Oh, _yeah_." He leaned in. 

__

Fulcrum could feel him venting from his mouth now, hot on the sensor-rich plating of his spike. He whined, thighs trembling. "Misfire." 

__

"Yeah?" The touch of his tongue was so light at first that Fulcrum almost wasn't sure it _was_ touching. But then Misfire licked, a long firm swipe of his tongue through the lubricant, and Fulcrum twitched. 

__

It was too hot, he couldn't cool himself fast enough with just his vents. He opened his mouth, too. His hands balled into fists. Misfire pressed his mouth to the side of his spike, lips impossibly soft and velvety and—

__

"Ahh— ohh. Oh! Misfire," he said again. Oh, he could feel the inside of Misfire's mouth too, just a little, wet and even hotter, painting a long soft streak on his plating, catching up the aching little sensors there. They fired fitfully, sending sharp little signals all the way up his frame to his processor. 

__

"That's good, loser." Of course Misfire didn't stop commenting just because his mouth and tongue were pressed against Fulcrum's spike. Instead, he started saying things while he was licking up the fluids with enthusiasm, between long, obscene strokes of his tongue: "That's really good. Mmm, these ridges are nice, I bet they hit every node when you frag someone—they're gonna hit every ring in my intake, ha," and, "Transfluid has a surprising energon rating, you know, and I bet you're storing a lot in there—" 

__

"I am," he croaked. He was. _He was_ , and his frame was more than ready to pump it straight down Misfire's intake, on his mouth, frag, maybe across his face or, or— _those wings_. He felt high and delirious. 

__

His frame was running hotter than it had when he'd made that horrible jump back on Clemency, which meant his processor was probably cooking. He didn't care. He wanted Misfire to put his spike in his mouth. He wanted to feel the throb of his lips sealed tightly around it when he sucked. 

__

Shakily, he stroked Misfire's head, his hands. His wings were in reach, too, so he touched them as well—he had no idea what would feel good, but he dragged his unsteady fingers along their edges and felt another gut-deep pulse of want when the leading edge wavered in the air, shivering.

__

Misfire's wings scraped on his legs, and he was so sensitive that even that made him shudder and whine. Misfire looped his arm under one of Fulcrum's knees to heave him further forward on the chair. He did it effortlessly, like moving Fulcrum's entire not-insignificant frame weight was a thoughtless reflex. 

__

That was the thing about seekers, about close range air support in general: they were so pretty, with their fluttery wings and cute aerodynamic frames, and the idea of _anything_ in flight made it seem like they should be light and delicate. Maybe to a tank, a seeker _was_ delicate... But to someone like Fulcrum, a skinny technician who'd had half his kibble ripped out to make room for more explosives, they absolutely were not. Misfire could have picked Fulcrum up and tossed him halfway across the room without his fans even clicking on. 

__

Fulcrum whimpered. 

__

Misfire's fans were on plenty high right now. 

__

"Yeah you are," purred Misfire, in a tone that suggested he'd completely forgotten the context of the comment. He licked again, following a line of fitfully flickering little lights right up the underside of Fulcrum's spike. "Your spike sure got hard fast," he said happily. His free hand commenced stroking long soft circles on the inside of Fulcrum's thigh. 

__

There was a low _snnk_ , the sound of a modesty panel that _wasn't_ creaky with disuse sliding away, and suddenly the smell of Misfire's lubricants, all thick and sweet, hit Fulcrum full force. His senses flooded with the sudden heady rush of it. And knowing that Misfire was leaking on the floor while he licked Fulcrum's spike was maybe the hottest thing he'd ever encountered.

__

"Misfire," he started.

__

"Oh, yeah," Misfire said, like maybe he had forgotten there was a mech actually attached to the spike he was licking so enthusiastically. He kissed the rounded head and his hot, velvety-soft lips rubbed against the sensors there and made Fulcrum groan. "You want me to suck it? I bet you're really hot for it." Like he couldn't hear Fulcrum's fans howling and his vents blasting hot air between them. "Your engine's going like you're trying to take off..." 

__

He kissed the tip of his spike again, sticking his tongue into the slit at the top—he made a pornographic noise of enjoyment at the discovery of transfluid already welling there, a little thick but liquid enough to lick up—then gave the length of it a long, luxurious squeeze, dragging his hand the full length of the shaft. 

__

Oh. Oh frag. Fulcrum felt that squeeze clean up his spinal strut. Circuitry that hadn't been touched in centuries at least activated, shocked into sudden sharp pleasure, spreading sweetly from its source low in his belly, where his interfacing protocols had somehow survived his reengineering. 

__

His frame jolted. Misfire held him down absently with his grip on Fulcrum's thigh. He gave the head of his spike another curious kiss, laving his tongue across the opening there. Fulcrum grunted and twitched again, squirming abortively against Misfire's hold. 

__

_"Misfire,"_ Fulcrum said, torn desperately between trying to communicate that this was cruel and unusual torment and trying to communicate that he absolutely did not want him to stop. 

__

"Shh, loser, I gotcha," Misfire said, sounding more entertained than sympathetic. 

__

But at last he sealed his mouth over the rounded head of Fulcrum's spike. The hand cradling it gave another of those long, soft-squeezing strokes, activating every sensor until it reached Misfire's mouth. He covered his teeth carefully—probably the first and last thing Misfire had ever done carefully in the whole history of his functioning, Fulcrum thought in a daze, before that thought got kicked out of primary processing to make room for more sensory feedback—and slid his tongue against the seams of the plates there, catching on delicate sensors. 

__

He slid his mouth down Fulcrum's spike, taking more and more of it in as he went, further and deeper even than Fulcrum had thought was quite possible to go. The inside of his mouth was hot, and soaking wet with oral lubricants. When he sucked, the pressure tugged against every sensor all at once. 

__

Fulcrum's thighs were shaking. He could hear it distantly, the soft rapid clink of metal on metal, scraping on the flat planes of Misfire's wings. 

__

Misfire, he learned almost immediately, could slide the thick head of his spike down right past the protective ring of his intake without any retching or purging or even evident discomfort: his field was still hot and eager, his lubricants were still heady and sweet in the air. Utterly undeterred, he sank Fulcrum's spike deeper into his intake until its head was cradled against the tight, hot lining of his throat there. It was so soft. 

__

It felt wonderful. It was not just the overwhelming pleasure of Misfire's mouth and throat on his swollen, throbbing spike, soft and caressing and squeezing and so good his sensory network was throwing up errors like it didn't quite know how to process the sensation. It was also the scrape of his wings and the blast of his vents and the relentless excitement of his electromagnetic field. There were pieces of code long buried in Fulcrum that craved the small intimacies just as much as his frame wanted desperately to overload, and they, too, had responded to Misfire's attention. 

__

Misfire's hand on his thigh felt like a brand, hot and intense against the sensitised plating. His fingers were sticky. 

__

His tongue rubbed as he moved his head, soft and sweet with firm pressure, across the exquisitely sensitive receptors on the underside of his spike. The bands beneath the delicate lining of Misfire's throat contracted and released, over and over, soft and hot. _Those are meant for swallowing fuel, Misfire_ , Fulcrum thought, vaguely uncertain about the safety of such a thing, but he did not get to say it because his vocaliser was already trying to make about four different noises of pure sensory delight at once, and coming up with only little whines and grunts for its efforts. 

__

"Misfire," Fulcrum slurred. Misfire's field flared, thick with pleased static. He squeezed his thigh and sucked harder in response, and Fulcrum groaned, which only encouraged him. 

__

His fuel pump thundered in his chest plates, pumping so hard he felt it like a drum through his frame. He knew Misfire must have been able to feel it clear through his spike. The thought made his insides clench and he moaned louder. His voice crackled like a poorly tuned radio. 

Misfire's lips pulsed when he sucked, a sweet heavenly throb. He rocked his hips mindlessly against Misfire's face, clicking his nose against the transformed metal that usually formed his modesty plating. 

His circuits flooded him with the feedback from his sensors, gone from centuries of neglect to sudden and heavy use in the space of minutes. The sheer pleasure was overwhelming. He twitched and whined with every obscene slurp and hum Misfire made. 

Fulcrum's fingers scraped over the smooth plating of his wings, clutching weakly. He made some truly embarrassing noises of pleasure, too caught up in the overwhelming sensation to care how dumb he sounded. They sounded desperate and shocked even to him, hard wordless little grunts and gasps, and Misfire's vents gave a short huff of startled heat in response. 

Somewhere deep in Misfire's frame, his powerful engine growled thunderously, and the vibration of it made Fulcrum's hips jerk desperately. 

"Oh. Oh frag. Oh—" his voice was crackling, cut with static. 

Hot, liquid pleasure broke over him, shivering across his circuitry in a wave. Cables clenched down throughout his frame, and his spike throbbed hard, plating flexing as he overloaded, pumping transfluid straight down Misfire's throat. It felt glorious, amazing, every sensor lit with it. He could feel, vaguely, that his legs were twitching, jerking under Misfire's restraining hold. He knew he was yelling but he couldn't hear anything over the rush of fuel in his frame and the sizzle of hot fluids, and that just made him yell louder. 

__

Misfire didn't let him go: he sucked on Fulcrum's spike like he was trying to drink down every last drop of fluid Fulcrum could offer him—Fulcrum thought he could almost feel it being drawn out through his spike. His hips shook. Actually, he realised numbly, his whole body was shaking, still trembling with the intensity of the overload, and Misfire's relentless sucking pressure was elongating it — 

__

"Ow," he croaked, "Misfire—" 

__

He yanked on his wing, and finally Misfire stopped trying to suck his brain module out through his spike. The seal of his lips made an obscene pop when they came off the head. 

__

He looked Fulcrum over with dimly lit optics for a second. Fulcrum had the vague thought to wonder what he was seeing. He registered an internal error about the heat of his own spark chamber, a blown fan and... Oh, the fact that he was half off the chair, aft hanging over the edge and legs flung out wide, largely supported by Misfire's grip on his thigh. 

__

" _Aw, yeah,_ " Misfire said, victoriously, and then wiped a tiny smear of transfluid off his mouth and sucked his fingers.

Fulcrum could hardly bring himself to feel embarrassed, despite a constitutional tendency to anxiety: he'd overloaded so spectacularly hard that he was barley on the same plane of existence as embarrassment. Was this what it was like to be Misfire? All the time? 

__

And Misfire was still right there, on his knees, looking up at him with his face flushed heavily and his spike stiff, slick and gleaming with lubricants and shamelessly on display. 

__

" _Hnnngh_ ," said Fulcrum. 

__

"Same," Misfire agreed. Then he leaned forward again and slid his other hand up Fulcrum's other thigh, making his foot twitch. "I can spike you now, right?" 

__

Fulcrum stared at him for a second. 

__

"Hello? Pinhead? Anyone home?" Misfire tapped a knuckle on the panel covering Fulcrum's valve, and he jolted at the sudden contact to such a sensitive area.

__

His interfacing system pinged him, and although he knew it was absurd to ascribe emotions to his own component parts, it still felt sort of hopeful.

__

"Did I suck your spike so good I broke you?" Misfire was still talking. Inevitably. "You wanna find out if your valve's rusted shut or not?"

__

_What the hell,_ thought Fulcrum. 

__

He snapped his panel open.

__

**Author's Note:**

> I loved this prompt when I saw it, but then I smacked the "claim" button and every single possible misinterpretation of every word in it immediately rose up from the deep to come for me. I hope this is what the prompter was looking for asdjdkfkfjfkh.


End file.
